Cut to ribbons To symphonies of blinding light
by Ophelie23
Summary: Words on Cat.


**A/N: Hi. This is my take on Cat. She's pretty complicated. This style is a bit more free form than my other story. I had a lot of fun writing it though. I should probably mention though that I might not get to updating for a while. As it turns out, school is a time-sucker and my life has been pretty much consumed by coursework and my school musical (I'm in Once on This Island in case anyone was vaguely interested) and college apps and lovely lovely essays in which I attempt to put thoughts down on paper (but it doesn't work out that well). But enough of my pointless complaining. Here is my response to Ava's challenge. I hope I did it justice!**

Cut to ribbons.

To pretty little ribbons.

Satin and silk. Glitter and matte. Bows and knots.

Pretty little ribbons.

Cut.

Cut to symphonies of blinding light.

To sunshowers and sunlight and thunder storms.

Pretty little symphonies. Chords and harmonies and dissonance and resolution.

Resolving symphonies and pretty ribbons. Ribbons of melodies winding around.

She hears but you doesn't always listen. Sometimes what you hear in your own pretty mind is prettier than the ugly world.

Cut to string.

To ugly grey string.

Twine and hemp and scratchy rope.

Ugly little strings.

Tie around your finger so you don't forget.

Pretty little pills. Ugly little words.

Whole symphonies of harsh words. Ugly sounds.

Shouts.

Screams.

Crashes of bottles on the floor.

Smashes and smacks.

Slaps and yells.

And songs of silence.

Sometimes what goes on inside your head is prettier than the ugly strings of ugly symphonies surrounding you. So you tie your own symphonies together with pretty ribbons.

And for a while no one notices.

No one cares.

But she slips up. Her ribbons begin to unravel because lies are to hard to keep straight. They get all tangled.

Things get messy.

It begins with a question.

People love to ask questions.

And when lying gets too complicated she just lets them think she's crazy.

They call her crazy and it's easy. It's easy to let them think you're different. Because you are. She is.

But they'll never guess how different. They'll never care how crazy.

Because crazy is crazy and different is different and people only have patience for perfection.

So she tries for perfection.

Perfectly crazy. Meticulously different.

It's fake and real at the same time. Which is why she likes it.

And she's not the only one.

Because everyone does it.

Everyone cuts up their own ribbons to symphonies of blinding light. It's all anyone ever does anymore.

And her ribbons are pink.

And Jade's are black.

And Tori's are orange.

And Beck's are deep blue.

And Robbie's are green.

And Andre's are purple.

And everything bleeds into saturated colors of ribbony sound. Symphonic sounds.

Some think in music and some think in numbers and some think in words and some think in pictures.

But she sees in music and thinks in thoughts and hears in words and listens in pictures and loves in colors and everything, absolutely everything, is made up of light.

Symphonies of blinding white light.

There's a boy, of course.

And it's complicated.

Way too complicated.

Until it's too complicated to keep the ribbons together.

So then there are more boys.

And that's less complicated.

And sometimes there are girls.

And they all blur together into a singly hazy memory and it's nice. It's nice. Until it stops being nice and it gets complicated again.

But a different kind of complicated.

Not the piercing headache kind of complicated but the continuous dull ache in her mind of something not being right.

But nothing is ever right for long.

Ribbons fade and symphonies end and light grows dark.

Until there's just one boy again.

The first boy. But he's different and she's different.

She starts to organize things.

Organization. Color-coded, size related. Big, small. Round, cylinder. Red, blue, brown, or white. Yellow yellow yellow.

A smile, a light touch as her delicate thin fingers reach into the bottle.

She holds the small capsule in her hand and studies it. She stares.

"You'll make everything better, yeah?"

"Yeah."

She smiles again as it talks back. Not really though, no. Just in theory. Pills don't actually talk. But if they did she was sure they would tell wonderful stories. If if if if if's and an's were pots and pans there'd be no need for tinkers.

She imagined the stories they'd tell. They'd weave ribbons of melancholy melodies. Simple stories and simple notes in bright colors.

"Cat?"

She wraps the pill closely in her hands and turns around, letting her arms fall swiftly behind her back. She looks up at her mother, who doesn't even register what her daughter is playing with. She smiles at her; she thinks she's such a sweet girl. A bit damaged of course, maybe a bit airy, but a beautiful wonderful girl.

Cat smiles.

Her mother says words and then leaves.

Cat is restless now. From anticipation or possibly just from sitting too long. Maybe just to move. Moving is like a dance, even if you're not really dancing.

And dance is wonderful. Dance is ribbons and symphonies all tied together.

But she doesn't want to dance. She wants to organize. She had organizing to do. Important business to attend to.

One, two, three, four, ...

Red, blue, yellow, red, brown, white, white, no!

One fish two fish red fish blue fish.

Yellow yellow yellow.

No pink.

White. Blue.

Girls in white dresses with blue satin sashes.

Eleven, twelve, thirteen, fourteen, ...

Perfect.

Girls in dresses. That's how all the really good stories start.

Everything important in this world has to do with dresses.

Cinderella had a dress. Belle had a dress.

Yellow yellow yellow.

Sleeping Beauty had a dress.

Pink. Blue. Pink. Blue. Green. Pink. Blue.

So blue.

It always starts with dress and it always ends with a dress.

A dress in the closet.

A dress on the floor.

A dress on the clothesline.

A dress in the window.

Order, order order. Things must be kept in order or else chaos will break. Snap.

Snap. Crackle. Pop.

Chaos.

Symphonies are ordered. They are structured. They are perfect.

So she cuts away at the numbness until symphonies of ribbon and ribbons of symphonies appear. And then she lines them all up by size and color. Like pills. But better. Ribbons actually do tell stories. Symphonies tell tales too.

And one day, they'll tell her story.

**...**

**Comment and review s'il vous plait!**


End file.
